


Dare Not Call You Father

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mary I of England: Truth, the daughter of time [19]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Historical Accuracy, No pairings - Freeform, Oneshot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: May-June 1536. Mary's journey from high hopes to fear to abject humiliation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of my Mary I series, but can also stand on its own.

**1st June 1536**

 

The harlot was dead.  
  
Justice had been served.  
  
Mary smiled.  
  
It was wicked to take so much pleasure in someone else’s death, but Mary was sure that even God would understand why she rejoiced so at Anne Boleyn’s execution. The day she’d burned for, kneeling on the cold chapel floor of Hatfield or laundering linens with her bare hands, had arrived, and Mary could not feel anything other than relief and satisfaction. After all the pain Anne had caused Mary, her mother, and good men like More and Fisher, she did not deserve to be mourned.  
  
If anything, her death heralded the release of the King from the spells she had cast upon him, and that he had repented of the way he treated his daughter for so long, and was ready to make amends.  
  
He had already released her from her post in Elizabeth’s household, and given her an establishment of her own at Hundson House, although it was nowhere nearly as large as her household at Ludlow had been. He had annulled his “marriage” to Anne, bastardized Elizabeth, and married Jane Seymour, a woman who Chapuys swore was secretly devoted to their faith, and ready to speak on Mary’s behalf to the king. Her father had not yet made any motions to reconfirm his first marriage, but Mary was confident that within a few weeks at most, she would be able to call herself Princess of Wales once more.  
  
None of it would have been possible had the concubine still lived, and Mary had no qualms about celebrating her end. She was so determined to forget her that she had brushed off the apology Lady Kingston had brought her a few days after her execution, the brazen lie that all the ways she had wronged Mary weighed heavily on her conscience. Her conscience! As if the whore even possessed one! More likely it was her lingering desire to make Mary’s life hell that had motivated her to deliver such an extraordinary message, when she must surely know that her crimes far outweighed anyone’s ability to forgive, even God’s.  
  
Mary shook the memory from her mind. In any case, Anne was dead and need not cast a shadow upon her life a moment longer.  
  
She twirled the quill she held between her fingers as she contemplated the parchment before her. Along with Anne’s final message, Lady Kingston had also relayed much more welcome news: permission from Cromwell to write to her father. This was the first letter she had been allowed to write to him in more than two years, and she had no intention of wasting it.  
  
After a carefully phrased introduction in which she begged pardon for all wrongs she had committed against him, she swore to obey him above all others, save God. She also congratulated him upon his new marriage, begging leave to wait upon the new Queen Jane, and concluded with a prayer that God would send them a prince. It was essential that she show that she was ready to be a loyal and dutiful daughter, so far as her conscience would allow, and that she would welcome the new queen.  
  
Mary carefully creased the letter, sealing it in an envelope, and passed it to the maid who stood waiting at the door, the first personal servant she had been allowed since her household at Ludlow was dissolved. As the maid left, Mary bowed her head and sent a short prayer of thanks to God for delivering her from darkness and granting her passage back into her father’s heart.

* * *

 

**13th June 1536**

****  
Gazing out the window for hours on end was unseemly, both for a princess and for a full-grown woman of twenty. However, when a fortnight came and went without any reply from her father, Mary often found herself moping in front of the second-story window that offered an excellent view of the courtyard. She knew her letter had not been delayed in reaching court; her steward had sent it on the fastest horse in the stables, and the road between Whitehall and Hundson was too well-travelled and too short for bandits to have waylaid him. It was the height of summer, which eliminated the possibility of inclement weather.  
  
Perhaps her father was caught up celebrating his new marriage… though surely Queen Jane was urging him to reach out to Mary and reconcile with her… Perhaps her father was preparing a grand welcome for her return to court and wanted to surprise her… though surely he must know after five years apart, she would have welcomed any reunion, no matter how humble or how simple…  
  
Whatever the reason, Mary’s high hopes had flagged, and her nerves were now fraught with anxiety. She had been short with her servants, snapping at them and reprimanding them for the smallest of offenses, only to find herself horrified at her lack of composure. Her household had forgiven her, as they all shared their mistress’s concerns, but their commiseration only heightened Mary’s worry. She had sent her father another letter, to no avail, and written to Cromwell, swearing that she had done all he commanded her to do.  
  
When she finally heard the clatter of hooves ringing out on the cobblestones, Mary immediately abandoned the embroidery she was stitching at and flew downstairs, not caring that she should have waited for the messenger to be announced. She was disheartened to see that the letter bore the seal of the Lord Privy Seal, not the King, and she ripped open the letter and read it right there in the courtyard.  
  
Cromwell’s reply was curt, bordering on sharp, making it clear to Mary that her return to royal favor was contingent on signing the letter he had enclosed. She knew without reading what it contained: a declaration of her illegitimacy and the invalidity of her parents’ marriage, along with the proclamation of the King’s supremacy in religious matters, superseding all other authority, even that of the pope.  
  
She knew she could not give in, not under any circumstances. The pope himself had given his verdict on the matter, and his word was the Holy Truth, truth that her mother, Thomas More, John Fisher, and so many others had died defending. If Mary gave in now, she would render their suffering and sacrifices useless.  
  
Mary marched back up to her room, arming herself with parchment and ink, and immediately began penning her reply. She wrote yet another letter to her father, declaring that next to God, she was ready to obey him in all matters. She wrote another letter to Cromwell, beseeching him to understand that she had done all that her conscience would allow her to do. She folded and sealed the letters herself, and brought them down to where the royal messenger stood in the courtyard.  
  
Her father was a good man, she reminded herself as she watched the messenger gallop away. He could be persuaded to appalling courses of action when he was vulnerable, but his execution of the harlot showed that he had broken free from her spell of heresy and was ready to make a new beginning. He had once been called _Fidei Defensor_ , and deep down, that faithful son of the Church must still be there. Even if his pride made him hesitate, surely her cousin the Emperor would push for her restoration, and she knew her father was seeking an Imperial alliance.  
  
By the end of the summer, she would be Princess of Wales once more and the pearl of her father's world. Within the week, his reply would come.

* * *

 

**15th June 1536**

 

His reply did come two days later.  
  
A carriage bearing the Tudor rose crest rolled into the courtyard, kicking up dust and pebbles. Mary watched stonily from the upper window as a deputation of men filed out. She stood at attention, her back straight and every inch a princess, as they were conducted into her audience chamber. “The Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Sussex, the Bishop of Chester…” her steward’s voice droned on. Mary gave a curt nod to each man as his title was announced.  
  
Finally, he finished, and the room settled into awkward silence, Mary at one end with her servants off to the side, and the delegation at the other end. Norfolk, the highest-ranking of them and self-appointed leader, spoke. “Lady Mary, we have come here on a matter of utmost importance. His Majesty commands you to agree to the Acts of Succession and Supremacy, as is your duty as both his daughter and his subject.”  
  
Mary felt a twinge of amusement at the fact that her father was so desperate for her submission that he had sent _ten_ of his most important nobles to deal with one girl. “My lords, as much as I am prepared to do anything else His Grace would ask of me, I cannot risk eternal damnation for the sake of a temporal prince.”  
  
“My lady, you risk eternal damnation by flouting His Majesty’s orders. For he is Supreme Head of the Church, and his orders come directly from God,” Sussex interjected.  
  
“He cannot speak for God, anymore than you or I or a beggar could,” Mary snapped. “That authority belongs to the Pope and no one else, as the descendant of St. Peter, from whom flows all righteousness.”  
  
Norfolk crooked an eyebrow. “Then you admit you still cleave to the Bishop of Rome? You are willing to flaunt your allegiance to that Italian vicar so openly and so flagrantly, even above your royal father?”  
  
Mary bristled at the insult to the Holy Father. “Your Grace, it is not that I forsake my duty to the King in favor of the Pope, or that I wish to defy him, only that I am willing to obey His Majesty in all matters, save where God and my conscience are concerned.”  
  
“Your _conscience!_ ” Norfolk all but spat the word. “Lady Mary, do not be coy with me. You know perfectly well what you are doing, don’t hide behind your damned _conscience_. That may have worked for you in the past, but I can assure you that His Majesty is not prepared to turn a blind eye to your intransigence for much longer.”

He paused, both to catch his breath and to gauge whether his words had frightened Mary. When he saw she remained unmoved, he narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice, making it sound even more menacing. “If you persist with this unnatural obstinacy, I can assure you the consequences will be far more devastating and far worse that anything you have endured thus far.”  
  
“Your Grace, I would prefer if you did not waste my time with empty threats meant for children,” Mary said coolly, maintaining her dignity. “I know my father. He would never blame me for obeying my conscience.”  
  
Norfolk crooked an eyebrow. “Then your ladyship is an even greater fool than I previously thought.”  
  
Mary bridled. “How dare you speak in such--”  
  
“This conversation is going nowhere,” the Bishop of Chester said suddenly. Mary was appalled that he dared interrupt her, but he continued, “Lady Mary, we have not come here to engage in fruitless debate. We have come here for one purpose only, and that is to see to it that the King’s commands are carried out. Now I ask you -- and do not equivocate about your conscience, if you had a conscience, you would not have defied your father like this for so many years. Now, I ask you-- nay, I _demand_ that you answer me plainly, for once and for all: are you prepared to obey His Majesty unconditionally where the Succession and the Supremacy of this realm are concerned?”  
  
Mary held her head high as she answered. “If you insist on phrasing it that way, then no, I cannot obey His Majesty in this affair. I will never admit that my mother’s marriage was invalid and that I am not His Majesty’s legitimate child, just as I can never accept my father in place of the Pope.”  
  
“You are a most unfilial and unnatural daughter!” Norfolk roared suddenly, enraged. He moved towards her with powerful strides, until he towered over her and was practically spraying her with spittle. “By God’s blood, if the King had not told me so himself, I would never have believed that you are his own bastard daughter! Had you been my daughter, or any other man’s daughter, I would have beaten you to death long ago with my own hands, or else smashed your head against the wall until I made it as soft as a boiled apple.”  
  
Mary felt her heart begin to pound as she took in those words. For a moment, her vision went hazy, and she thought she might faint.  
  
Norfolk was a man who had always avoided displeasing his king at any cost, and was always quick to call himself the King’s most loyal servant. He had been the one who arrived at Ludlow to tell her that her life as a princess was over, and he had also been the one who sentenced his own niece and nephew to death less than a month ago, when they fell from favor with the King.  
  
If pragmatic, expedient Norfolk was prepared to threaten violence against her, a girl born a princess, in language that could mean his death should it ever reach the King’s ears, it did not bode well for where Mary stood in her father’s favor.  
  
Mary took a deep breath, struggling not to let her fear show on her face. She tried to infuse her voice with as much disdain as she could, but even so, her voice wavered as she spoke. “Yet I am not your daughter, nor am I His Majesty’s bastard daughter, for that matter. I am his legitimate child, born in holy matrimony.”  
  
“You are a traitor,” Norfolk informed her brutally, “and will be punished like a traitor if you do not obey your father.”  
  
“This endeavor is fruitless,” declared Sussex to his fellow men. “It is plain that we cannot move the Lady Mary any closer to obedience than when we arrived. We will have to return to His Majesty empty-handed.”  
  
The other men were clearly unhappy with the outcome of the meeting. Norfolk jerked his head furiously toward Lady Shelton, whom Mary had been obliged to retain as her governess when she moved to Hunsdon. The woman stepped forward and curtseyed meekly. Norfolk ordered her brusquely, “See to it that the Lady Mary is kept under watch day and night, and that she has no opportunity to exchange a word with anyone who might bolster her resistance. God help all of us when the King hears of this.”  
  
As soon as the men had filed out of the study, Mary collapsed into the nearest chair, feeling sick and dizzy with fear. She was only peripherally conscious of her anxious servants hovering around her, and of Lady Shelton’s sharp voice commanding them all to leave. After a few minutes, the room was silent and Mary felt a glass of spiced wine being pressed into her hand. She opened her heavy eyes to see Lady Shelton instruct her briskly, “Drink up, my lady. It'll be good for you.”  
  
Mary obeyed, drinking the liquid in tiny sips, afraid that any faster would cause her to vomit. Her stomach had been churning since the end of that awful meeting.  
  
Lady Shelton sat down in the chair across from her. Despite the fact that the older woman was the harlot’s aunt and enlisted to spy on her, Mary was grateful for her presence. While Lady Shelton’s primary loyalty would always be to the King and her family, she had also always been as considerate and as respectful of Mary as she could afford to be. Mary would never be able to esteem the governess as a friend or someone she could trust, but she was still appreciative of the fact that Lady Shelton had never gone out of her way to be cruel.  
  
The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, before Lady Shelton finally spoke again. “Your Ladyship surely realizes that, sooner or later, His Grace means to have your submission.”  
  
“I cannot.” Mary’s words were hard as ice. “I cannot give in, no matter what the cost.”  
  
“But he _will_ have it. He has been meaning to have it for years, and his recent marriage has only cemented his resolve. He will not be patient for much longer -- and frankly, my lady, I marvel at the patience His Majesty has shown so far.”

 

“ _Patience!_ ” Mary all but spat the word, leaping out of her chair. “You of all people know how I have suffered this past decade for upholding the truth, and yet you call the King _patient_?”

 

Lady Shelton’s expression remained gentle, despite Mary’s outburst. “Yes, madam, patient. Frankly, I consider it a miracle your head is still attached your shoulders. But for the fact you were his daughter, you would have suffered much worse consequences years ago, perhaps from the moment you first refused to take the Oath.”

 

The words were a slap in the face but also the blunt truth, and left Mary subdued and ashamed. She should not have lashed out at the governess, who had always acted out of duty and necessity rather than malice. During Mary’s imprisonment at Hatfield, she had refused to beat Mary, despite being urged to, and even dared to say that Mary deserved better treatment, no matter whose bastard she was.

 

“Forgive me, my Lady Shelton,” Mary whispered, sinking back into her chair. “I should not have vented my anger on you, not when I know you genuinely care for my welfare.”

 

“‘Tis no matter, my lady. You’ve had a dreadful time of it, and you’ve handled it much better than most would have in your shoes. But I fear matters will only grow worse for you should you continue to court His Majesty’s displeasure. You know as well as I do what has happened to those who displease the King’s Grace, even if he once loved them.” Lady Shelton looked away and into the fire.  
  


  
Mary felt her breath catch in her throat as she thought of Thomas More, Bishop Fisher, and Cardinal Wolsey-- all men her father once held in highest esteem, all of whom paid the ultimate price for not giving him what he wanted. He had all but killed her own mother for defying him, and he had imprisoned Mary for nigh on three years. No, his love was no guarantee for protection from his wrath.

  
And Lady Shelton must be thinking of her own niece, whom she had waited on in the Tower in the days before her death. Mary felt no pity or sorrow for Anne Boleyn, but even so, she could not help but feel a chill at how easily her father had discarded the woman he spent seven years pursuing and upending the whole of Europe to have.  
  
Unbidden, Anne’s apology resurfaced in her mind, and although Mary wanted to forget it, she could not, now that she knew that Anne’s death had not stopped her cruel treatment. If anything, it made it worse, because now she couldn’t convince herself that her father was merely a victim of Anne’s manipulation.  
  
Had she been wrong to view Anne’s death as the end of all her troubles, when she should have instead heeded it as a warning?  
  
It was a possibility Mary could not discount, no matter how much she wanted to.  
  
If the King could kill a woman who had been as dear to him as a wife, there was no telling what he could to to his daughter.  
  
For the first time since Mary had been charged with taking the Oath, she seriously considered the prospect that her father might execute her. She imagined a company of the King’s soldiers marching up to Hundson, their faces grim and stoic. The long journey in the carriage, going by barge to the Tower of London. The trial, if her father would even grant her one. Climbing the scaffold, gazing out at the crowds of people who had once knelt to her as Princess of Wales. Laying her head upon the block and waiting for the axe to fall.  
  
Nausea engulfed her. Could her father really take such a step, murder his daughter to secure a son that did not even exist yet?  
  
She had to write to Chapuys. Her cousin was the most powerful monarch in Christendom, and he would put an end to this. He had been slow to act in the past, but surely the Emperor would intervene when he knew her life was in danger.  
  
Throughout the long, terrible afternoon, whenever Mary managed to evade Lady Shelton’s eagle eye for a few minutes, she worked on a letter to Chapuys, pouring out her fears and begging him to write to his master to extend whatever aid he could. That night, as her personal maid was preparing her for bed, she pressed the folded paper into her hands. The secretly sympathetic maid squeezed her hand back, not needing to say any words for Mary to know that she would smuggle it out to the Imperial Ambassador.

* * *

 

**17th June 1536**

 

Two days passed, in which Mary paced about the walls of her gilded prison restlessly. It reminded her of a trip she’d taken to the menagerie in the Tower with her father, when she was much younger, and she’d seen the lions prowling about in their cages, agitated at being cooped up.  
  
She prayed whenever she could, kneeling on the chapel floor, the cold burning straight through her skirts. For the first time since she was declared a bastard, she was truly afraid for her life, and she spent hours pleading with God to turn her father from this dreadful course of action, and to grant her the strength she needed not to give in.  
  
The euphoria she’d felt at Anne’s death seemed like a distant memory, now, a brief respite of hope that had only made the return to miserable reality all the crueller. Headaches and toothaches assaulted her every moment of the day, and despite her ladies’ best efforts, no remedy could help her.  
  
When Mary was not at prayer, she found herself skulking in odd locations around the manor, hungry for whatever scraps of information she could gather. Eavesdropping was an ignoble practice in a princess of the blood, but a necessary skill to cultivate in a disinherited bastard cut off from court.  
  
From the brief snippets of overheard conversation, Mary gathered that her latest refusal had sent her father into a terrible rage, frightening even his most well-seasoned courtiers. He was convinced that someone was encouraging her in her defiance, and had turned his suspicions upon anyone who had ever expressed sympathy to her. Lady Hussee, the wife of her father’s chamberlain and a woman renown for her virtue, had been sent to the Tower, while Mary’s most trusted servant had been held under house arrest at Cromwell’s lodging for two days. Many other ladies had been dragged to swear to the oaths in front of the Privy Council, while the Marquis of Exeter and FitzWilliam, two men known to be favorable to her, had been dismissed from the council. Even Queen Jane had been rudely repulsed when she tried to speak on her behalf. Mary’s supporters were being tormented and terrorized for their loyalty to her, something which caused Mary no end of anguish.  
  
Even Cromwell, that wily, cunning, snake, had been on the receiving end of the King’s ire for not crushing her rebellion, and had considered himself to be a dead man for several days. He was desperate to regain favor with the King, and had sent Mary a letter in which he termed her the most obdurate woman God had ever created and informed her that whatever suffering she endured could not be greater than his.  
  
From the gossip she had overheard, her father had been ranting about sending her to the Tower, and had come very close to signing the warrant for her arrest. Only the refusal of the council members to take such a drastic step had saved her life, and they had managed to persuade the King to sent her a list of articles to agree to and sign. Mary knew that the paper she held in her hands could very well be the last chance for both her and her supporters, and she knew that if she had an ounce of wisdom or self-preservation, she would sign it right then and there.  
  
But she would not, could not sign it, could not take that ultimate step. As much as she feared being executed on her own father’s orders, she shrank just as much from the thought of signing away her legitimacy and her faith.  
  
Chapuys had not yet been able to reply to her plea, and the prospect of hearing back from him was all that sustained her now. She would read his letter and from there, decide what to do. Surely the might of the Emperor would swing the balance in her favor. Her mother’s kinship to the mightiest monarch in Europe had protected her from the worst of the consequences; surely the same would work for Mary.

* * *

 

**22nd June 1536**

 

Chapuys’ letter had arrived.  
  
The Emperor had abandoned her.  
  
She was alone, with no recourse or alternatives to save her.  
  
It was late when the letter was shoved underneath her door. In the privacy of her own chamber, Mary had unfolded it to reveal a crumpled paper blotted with ink, clearly written in a hurry and under a great deal of stress. The dim firelight, along with Mary’s poor vision and pounding headache, meant that it took a long time to decipher his hasty handwriting, but each word seared her like a hot poker straight to the flesh.  
  
It was the Emperor’s wish that she obey her father, if her life was in danger. He would not antagonize her father in this matter, and she had no option but to take the Oath. Chapuys tried to frame the unpalatable truth as kindly as he could, pointing out that the future of the kingdom depended on her continued survival, and that the best thing she could do to save England from heresy was to take the Oath. God looked more into the intentions of men than their deeds, and the pope would forgive her for the deception.  
  
Well, the pope might forgive her, but Mary knew she would never forgive herself. Even so, she could see the truth in Chapuys’ words, and she knew that her time had run out. She had no option but to submit, not if she wanted to live.  
  
It had taken ten years, but her father had finally won. He had broken Mary’s resolve, and left her with no choice.  
  
Quickly, without reading it, Mary signed her name to every clause on the list of articles. Then, because her signature alone would not satisfy her father, she wrote a letter of apology accompany it.  
  
_I humbly prostrate myself at Your Majesty’s feet…_

 

_I have so gravely offended you that I dare not call you father…_

 

_I place myself entirely under your direction, knowing that your wisdom and knowledge is much greater than mine…_

 

 _I desire no state, no condition, no manner of living except whatever Your Majesty desires for me._  
  
It was pathetic, groveling drivel that made her cringe even as she wrote it, but Mary was beyond caring. As far as she was concerned, if her father was prepared to kill her, she could not exaggerate her supposed remorse enough, not if she wanted to live. And she wanted to live, God help her. She wanted to live, and she would have kissed the ground her father walked on if it meant he would not kill her.  
  
With trembling hands, Mary sealed the envelope and passed it to the good servant who had been waiting outside the door. Once he was gone, she rose on shaking legs and made her way to the window. She could not bring herself to pray; after what she had done, she did not deserve to ask forgiveness from God.  
  
By morning, the news of her submission would be making its rounds at court, and there would be congratulations pouring in from every corner. Her father would be pleased that she had finally obeyed him, and he and his new queen would set about welcoming her back to court and restoring her to a somewhat honored position. Everyone would expect her to share their happiness, but Mary knew she would be able to take no pleasure in it. She would plaster a smile on her face and accept the rewards for yielding as gracefully as she could, but she would be impervious to it all, as though separated from the world by a veil. Mary doubted she would ever be able to take joy in anything again, not while the ink of her signature upon that vile oath still gleamed in her memory like blood upon a murderer’s hand.  
  
Come morning, she would play the grateful, repentant daughter, but for now, Mary simply pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She stared out at the darkness, wishing she could imbibe some of the tranquility of the summer night, thereby soothing the screaming chasm of pain inside her. Stars twinkled overhead in the clear night sky, and Mary imagined her mother somewhere among them, at peace in Heaven with God. Mary nearly envied her. She hoped that Katherine could not see what had happened in England since her death, and that, if she could, she understood that no matter what Mary had been made to sign, her daughter knew that her parents’ marriage had been valid and that her mother had been Queen of England as long as she lived.  
  
One day, Mary would be Queen of England too. It was all that sustained her now, the only balm left to soothe her guilty conscience. One day, she would be Queen, as she was born to be, as her mother had died fighting for her right to be, and she would undo everything to which she had given her consent. She would make England a Catholic country once more, reverse the plague of heresy, punish everyone who had ever dared cross her, and clear her mother’s name.  
  
If her capitulation meant that she lived to be Queen, she would know that her betrayal had not been in vain.

**Author's Note:**

> The letters exchanged by Mary and Cromwell are based on actual historical letters from May and June 1536, as is the exchange between Mary and the Duke of Norfolk. The title is taken from the letter of submission Mary wrote to her father. 
> 
> Anne’s apology, relayed by Lady Kingston, is also taken from history.
> 
> If anyone has any ideas or requests for any moments from Mary's life, seeing her interact with other Tudor figures, AU Mary-centric ideas, or even an entirely Mary-unrelated idea, leave me a comment!


End file.
